


Precious Still

by Justcannibalthings



Category: Original Work
Genre: M U R D E R, Mentions of Rape, but i wrote this a lot time ago, no but seriously, so its poorly written, there is murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9697634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justcannibalthings/pseuds/Justcannibalthings
Summary: I closed my eyes to the searing pain below, I held my breath to the odour above, and bit back a whimper to distract myself from the weight all around me. When it was over, when he had finished with me, I simply lay there. Scared to move. Scared to look down, knowing all too well the horrifying shades of crimson that awaited me...





	

I closed my eyes to the searing pain below, I held my breath to the odour above, and bit back a whimper to distract myself from the weight all around me. When it was over, when he had finished with me, I simply lay there. Scared to move. Scared to look down, knowing all too well the horrifying shades of crimson that awaited me.

My teachers reprimand me for not listening with threats of detention; little do they know how much of a blessing the prolonging of returning to the proverbial monsters lair will be. I wonder if they realise pain is why I don’t listen. Outside however, there is a surprise. The man leans on his car, smoking casually and wearing a suit that costs more than the wages of all around him. He smiles when he sees me. I would run over if my long abused body permitted it, but I settle for a brisk walk, the hug that follows results in me feeling safe for the first time in so long. I bite back tears so he doesn’t know.

I’m quiet in the car, but I usually am. I’m just so glad he’s here; sometimes I have nightmares that he’s not real and wake up in a cold sweat. He doesn’t mind the 3AM calls. He doesn’t push me when I don’t speak; it’s something I’m eternally grateful for, because I know if he did I’d tell him.

We arrive at his home in about half an hour, I love it here, there’s just something about the oak on stone combination that gives the whole place a traditional feel. It’s a far cry from the run down old trailer I’m used to. Soon I am lying with my head in his lap, a hand stroking my hair softly. The sofa is comfortable, and the house is warm. Fortunately, décor is not what’s on either of our minds, but when kisses grow more desperate he pulls back with a shake of his head and with his words as smooth as his suits he hums, “When you’re older”. I wish others felt the same. This is what I try to say; though my words are choked. He asks me what I mean but I can feel it, in my heart and my lungs and everywhere, and it burns and hurts and suddenly there is no air. Time grinds to a stop, like the moment of silent prayer when your alarm goes off that somehow school is just gone, or when you step outside in shorts and a shirt and the heavens open and you know that the days just going to be awful. Air pours into my lungs once again as arms wrap themselves around me, blocking everything but the scent of expensive cologne and the faint smell of imported fabric. None of it is threatening; it’s familiar and strangely grounding. “You’re still mine” he whispers, “Still precious”. It’s at this point I realise I’ve been crying for a long time.

I wake up the next day feeling like the entire world is just a fraction brighter; for the first time I feel like maybe I don’t have to suffer. At least not for a while because the blankets don’t scratch like they usually do and that can only mean one thing. I stretch out and let out a long hum of approval whist turning toward the owner of the bed. I’m met by two glistening pools of blue and brown, like the waters of a rusted metal tank with the flecks of aged metal dancing across the surface, I could look at them forever. Eventually he has to get up but not before I feel warm flesh caress my forehead. I feel a weight lift from the bed, and everything fades to black once more.

I doze for about an hour, but the smell coming from downstairs finally wins its battle against my desire to sleep. I very inelegantly, and quite literally, roll out of bed with a grunt. I meander down the hallway, running my hand along the hand carved patterns that trace along the middle of the walls; my eyes are closed as I step down the stairs enjoying the smell of whatever he’s cooking. The overwhelming sense of belonging makes me want to dance and cry at the same time, I know this house far better than my own. As I turn the corner and enter the kitchen I open my eyes. He’s right there. He found me in my only safe haven, he has violated the only place I have, the only place where I’m living and not just breathing. I shut my eyes once more and suck in a breath, willing them to stay closed, to keep the haze of the dream going. I can’t stop the smell of overpriced bacon and handmade bread from dissipating, making room for the foul stench of cheap whiskey and sweat. I suddenly feel something hard, almost jagged behind me, and I know it’s my place of ‘rest’ and as the fleshy barrier between safety and reality shifts I know it was just a dream; I’ve lost my appetite now but I’m sure he hasn’t.

I don’t know how long passes with me lying there. I don’t know how long it will be until I have to endure this again. But I know it won’t be long enough. I lie on the sheets, damp from a mixture of sweat, and blood and I think. I think of all the pain and all the times I hid in the bathroom stalls so I didn’t have to get changed, of all the times everybody laughed at me when I failed a test, or cried out in pain when I sat down too fast. But this time I’m not sad. I’m angry. So I do the only thing I can and pick up the phone.

If he’s so high and mighty let’s see how he likes it when someone else plays god. I’ve had him tied to a chair for a while now, in the room where it all started. I play with the knife in my hands, but I’m getting impatient. I decide to start, exiting the room briefly and returning with a needle and thread, I lift the knife to my lips in a shushing motion and pull the gag from between his lips before stitching them shut. It would be a lot faster if he’d sit still, I’m glad he doesn’t know that. A thin scalpel does the job for his ears, rendering him deaf fairly easily (for me anyway). Now the eyes. I would push them in but then he’d die and it would be a shame for him to miss the finale, so instead I just pop them right out. The torn mattress is covered in blood by this point. He won’t hurt anyone anymore. I smirk at him, I can feel the slowly drying blood on my face crack slightly as the skin flexes, and I can hear the muffled pleas escaping his mouth, begging me to stop. The irony is like sugar as I unzip his jeans and slice off what started all of this, and defiled what is mine. There is spit dripping down his chin by this point, from what I assume is his attempt at crying. I carve three words into the wall, and leave. He’s sorry now.

It’s a matter of hours before I hear the sirens, but I don’t run. I want them to know what he did. I wake up in a blank room and sit up, I realise I’m in prison but I don’t remember anything. He said he’d protect me. I protected them, from their father and from all of this. They’re safe now, and he’s dead. A blonde woman, with a suit and a clipboard holds out her hand and says she’ll explain everything. I go with her but all she does is use words I don’t understand, and tell me he isn’t real. Idiots, they’re lying to me. Of course he’s real. They’re liars. I protected him didn’t I? Of course he is, he protected me…didn’t he?

The next few hours are spend answering stupid questions, “why did you carve that into to wall?” “You didn’t?” “Well who did?” “Okay…is he here with us now?”

“What is he sorry for?” I just stare ahead, the blonde still hasn’t stopped asking questions “Or are you apologising for what you did?” I didn’t do anything, how should I know? Because he deserved it, he had to pay for what he did. My head hurts, and I can hear his voice. I don’t miss him like I usually do; the sound of his voice does its best to calm my aching head but it’s only making it worse. These aren’t my thoughts anymore.

“As a result of years of mental and physical abuse, this child, this victim has given up. Not unlike some instances of PTSD, they have created a separate identity, a separate being with whom they live and go to, to escape the horrific ordeals that had become almost mundane. An inevitable result of this is unfortunately the merging of these characters, and the eventual murder of their father. I have taken these factors into account during sentencing, and have decided to accept the plea of insanity. I sentence you to 15 years, to be served in a psychiatric ward.”

“Repeat after me okay?”

“Okay.”

“He’s a construct of your imagination; he was never real to begin with.”

Of course I’m real.

“He’s a construct of my imagination; he was never real to begin with.”

“He’s a construct of your imagination; he didn’t kill your father.”

I love you, I was protecting you.

“He’s a construct of my imagination; he didn’t kill my father.”

“He’s a construct of your imagination; you killed your father.”

Someone had to help you protect yourself.

“He’s a construct of my imagination; Of course I killed my father.”


End file.
